


Forging Alliances

by Clarimond



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dubious Consent, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarimond/pseuds/Clarimond
Summary: Being a smuggler is a dangerous job. When you find yourself in a pickle, help comes from an unexpected quarter. But of course, nothing is ever free.
Relationships: Weyoun (Star Trek)/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Forging Alliances

It’s over. There’s nowhere else to run. The warp drive of your shuttle was hit and there’s no way you can outmaneuver the pirate ship on impulse alone. The cabin is shaking as the navigation system goes haywire, and it’s all you can do to avoid being thrown across the room and breaking your neck. Any second now you expect to be beamed aboard the vessel of your pursuers. You don’t want to think of what will happen when they get ahold of you, or if they’ll even let you live. 

Smoke starts filling the cabin, and you turn anxiously to the window screen. Despite the waves of static buzzing over it, you can clearly see the inevitable approach of a jagged-looking ship. You clutch the armrests in a white-knuckled grip and fight off angry tears. What a pathetic way for everything to end… Just then, another ship drops out of warp right behind it, dwarfing the pirate vessel with its superior size. Dark and sleek, purple navigation lights around its edges, immediately recognizable as a Dominion Dreadnought. In the next second you are blinded by a flash, as a polaron beam eviscerates the smaller ship, cleanly breaking it in two, like a child’s toy. Parts of the blown-up ship float gracefully in all directions, carried by the momentum. You’ve never seen anything like it before. You must’ve relaxed your hold on the chair for a second, because you are thrown out of it in the next bout of turbulence. You try to get up but you feel too dizzy. Dark spots pulse in your vision from the smoke you’ve inhaled, and you black out just as you feel the familiar tingling of dematerialization.  
~~~  
You’re jerked back to consciousness with a sting of a hypospray on your neck. Your vision is blurry at first, but whatever you were just injected with is gradually helping you regain your faculties. You are in an unfamiliar place: two humanoid figures are standing above you, looking down at your prone form. As your vision clears, you can make out their features: dark hair, purple eyes, peculiar ridges along the ears… Ah. They’re Vorta. As the last wisps of the fog clear from your mind, you finally recall what happened previously. You must be on board of the Dominion ship now.

The taller one of the Vorta, dressed in what you assume is a medical staff uniform, is slightly leaning towards the other one, murmuring something in a voice too low for you to hear. It’s clearly about you though, because he keeps looking at his tricorder, then at you, then at his companion and back at you again. Finally, after a short exchange, the medic gives a sharp nod and leaves your field of vision. The one that stayed immediately directs his gaze towards you. His expression is neutrally pleasant, his eyes unreadable. 

“Ah, you’re awake! How are you feeling, my dear?” he asks, in a strangely cheerful voice.

“Um, I think I’m alright, thank you,” your voice it trembling slightly, and you tell yourself it must be the shock. “Who are you?”

He takes a step closer and clasps his hands together. He has an air of confidence about him. His eyes, slightly unfocused due to myopia, are nonetheless staggeringly intent, as if he’s deconstructing your every move, reading your very thoughts. You feel exposed under his scrutiny.

“How rude of me not to introduce myself! My name is Weyoun, I’m a representative of the Dominion in this sector. You’ve been beamed aboard out ship. And you are..?”

“Y/N” you decide not to volunteer any more information than is strictly necessary. Instead, you add, “You saved me.”

You’re not sure why you felt the need to voice that last part. As an appeal to his empathy maybe. Weyoun looks like he finds your sentiment humorous.

“Hmm. Perhaps. Your future is still undecided however. That would depend on how and why you found yourself in Dominion space.”

That is the main question, isn’t it?

“I was escaping the pirate freighter! I didn’t even realize I crossed the border!” you blurt out, trying to look innocent.

“Oh, but I think you did. Let me guess. You were hoping that your pursuers wouldn’t follow you into Dominion territory, didn’t you?” Crap. That was exactly what you were thinking. You didn’t notice when he got so close, but now he’s practically hovering over you. His expression lost all pretense at friendliness. “We scanned your shuttle, you know. Apparently, it was carrying a considerable amount of kemocite. In other words, contraband.” You’re so screwed. “Now, why don’t you tell me how that came about?”

Your mouth goes dry. As his purple eyes drill holes into you, you feverishly search for an answer that would implicate you the least. Not only were you caught illegally entering Dominion space, you were carrying a shipment of a highly regulated substance. They could easily put you on trial for smuggling; or worse – terrorism. Although, considering what happened to the ship that was chasing you, a trial might be too optimistic of an option.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, stalling for time. You’ll have to go with the first idea that popped into your head.

“I-I was trying to escape. Those people are… were slave traders. They abducted me when I was on my way to Kesprytt,” you hid your face in your hands and willed yourself to tear up. Considering your situation, it wasn’t that difficult. You sniffed for added effect. “I m-managed to incapacitate one of the guards and escape with the shuttle. I had no idea it had contraband in it, I was just trying to get away! That’s why they chased me all the way here. I don’t even want to imagine what they would’ve done to me if your ship didn’t show up then.”

You raise your teary eyes to your interrogator, praying that he bought your story. It wasn’t that far-fetched. You know that some pirates occasionally sell captives to the Orion Syndicate, if such an opportunity arises. And the guys that were chasing you were definitely pirates. 

The Vorta narrows his eyes at you, digesting the information you gave him. He keeps looming uncomfortably close, and you have to suppress the urge to squirm.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of a door sliding open and heavy footsteps somewhere to your right. 

“Your presence is required on the bridge immediately.” Says someone in a deep voice. Weyoun looks up at the owner of the voice, then back to you.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to continue this conversation later. I advise you to think long and hard about your answers.”

With that, he turns around and leaves you to the silence of an unfamiliar room.  
~~~  
Surprisingly, instead of the brig, you are shown to the small living quarters. Well. ‘Shown’. More like dragged by a pair of Jem’Hadar but you figure they’re just having a bad day or something. Regardless, you take the opportunity to take a shower and get rid of your burned and bloody clothing. You forgot to replicate yourself something else to wear before you entered the bathroom, so you have to walk back to the replicator located in the living space naked. Not that it bothers you especially. It can hardly make you feel any more vulnerable than you already do.

But as you hear the hiss of the door opening and feel a burning gaze on your back, you reconsider your last thought. Still, you command your tensed-up body to relax and calmly order a robe from the replicator. A wicked idea lights up in your brain, and a sensible part of you protests in horror. But then again, if you were known for being sensible, you wouldn’t have become a smuggler.

So, instead of scrambling to put on the robe, you take it, and, pretending to admire the silky material, turn to face the intruder. It’s the same Vorta who interrogated you. You had a feeling it would be him.  
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t expect guests so soon,” you say with a slight smirk and the confidence you don’t necessarily feel.

Tension fills the silence between you, as his violet eyes shamelessly take in your naked form. The intensity of his gaze stuns you for a second, and you feel your skin warming up as your heartbeat accelerates. After a moment, Weyoun breaks the silence.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve already made yourself comfortable,” as he takes a step in your direction, you turn and walk towards a small settee in the middle of the room, putting on your new robe unhurriedly. As if you truly were a resident and he a guest, you sit down and beckon him to join you. You both know you’re in no position to behave this way, but you hope he’ll see it for what it is – an invitation to a game.

After a charged couple of seconds, he decides to play along and moves to sit next to you. Rather closely, as a matter of fact. You take it as a good sign.

“You have been very hospitable so far. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Before you could run out of courage, you move closer and put your hand on his knee. His eyebrows raise in a look of mock surprise but other than that he doesn’t react, doesn’t recoil. He’s waiting for your next move. Your heart beats heavily in your ribcage and your hands tremble slightly but you push forward.

“I realize that the circumstances that led to me being here were… less than perfect,” you hope that the huskiness of your voice can be perceived as sensual, instead of nervous. “I was wondering if we could find a mutually satisfactory way to resolve this misunderstanding,” your hand slides up from his knee, fingers lightly stroking the inside of his thigh. You watch intently for any reaction, so you notice Weyoun’s breathing getting a little deeper. Something dark flashes in his eye, but is immediately replaced by a calculating look. You can almost see the gears turning behind those curved ears.

“And how exactly do you see your situation resolving?” he murmurs.

So far so good. At the very least, he seems open to negotiation.

“You’re en route to the Demilitarized Zone, right? I would be terribly grateful if you dropped me off at any one of the big colonies there.” You scoot over even closer, almost flush to his body, and whisper the last part in his ear. “After all, what difference would little old me make in the grand scheme of things?”

Weyoun shivers and his gaze turns blatantly appraising. It could almost be compared to intense curiosity, if not for the undercurrent of greed behind it. You notice his pupils dilating and suddenly know that he has reached some kind of decision.

“We won’t be reaching the Demilitarized Zone for at least a week.”

“Time flies when you are in good company.”

The way he’s looking at you is sending a thrill up your spine. 

Suddenly, the mood changes. His hand shoots out and grabs your jaw. The look in his eyes turns cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins. He brings his face a breath away from yours.

“Surely you don’t think I’m that simple. Your runaway slave story was very moving, but you’re not a good enough liar to fool me.” Weyoun pauses, letting his words sink in, no doubt enjoying your frightened expression. “Still, I’m feeling uncharacteristically generous tonight, so I have a counter-offer for you, my little lawbreaker.”

You had no idea someone of such slight stature could be so intimidating. His hand moves from your face to your neck, his fingertips stroking unexpectedly gently over your rapid pulse like a subtle threat. You must have gotten your wires crossed, because this elicits an entirely inappropriate reaction from your body.

“You see, I’m a politician by occupation. And as such, I can never have enough informants, especially of the illegal variety.” He gives you a meaningful look. “I might need someone to run an errand outside of the Dominion sphere of influence, or obtain some secret information, what have you. Someone like you would do nicely. And in exchange you will have limited permission to safely operate on the outskirts of our territories. An invaluable opportunity in your line of work, I’d imagine.”

It is. Having a letter of indulgence such as this could make you very rich very fast. You’d be a fool not to accept. Still, you can’t help a poke to see what you can get away with.

“And if I refuse?”

A slow, self-assured smile stretches his lips.

“You won’t.” His fingers tighten slightly on your neck, but his voice stays even and affable. “Now say it.”

This turn of events is entirely unexpected. Your feigned air of self-assurance has dissipated a long time ago, and the tension in your stomach is coiling ever tighter. Heavy, shivering breaths are coming through your slightly parted lips. You are scared. You are excited.

“Alright. I agree,” you whisper.

In the next moment Weyoun removes his hand from your neck and leans away slightly, portraying a smile so fake, it is clearly meant to be insulting.

“I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear that. I’m certain that this pact will be remarkably beneficial for the both of us,” he gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice becomes a whisper, as if he’s telling you a secret, “And in the future, if you ever find yourself reconsidering the terms our agreement, please remember that my network of informants is very wide indeed, and finding a person in our vast Universe is not as difficult as it might seem.”

He sits back comfortably on the sofa and looks you over one more time, letting the threat linger. Something tells you he’s not done with you yet. 

You’re proven correct when he takes a deep breath and his smile turns predatory, his eyes dark. 

“Now then, in the interests of our future working relationship, I’d like to see how well you can take orders.”

You inwardly startle at the transparent innuendo. Inexplicably, it is both surprising, and entirely expected. It feels like a reckoning. Something inside of you clenches deliciously at the sight of his thin smile. 

“Kneel.”

It’s as if that word nails your consciousness to the basest part of you, instantly turning your insides to warm jelly, and anything outside this time and place nonexistent. You know only to obey.

You slide off the sofa and kneel between his legs. A noticeable bulge is straining the fabric of his pants, and you’re gratified to see him affected, too. Your impulse is to move, to touch him, but you quell it. This is not the game you’re playing right now. Weyoun notices your hands twitching in a halted movement and smirks. You’re catching on fast.

“Very good. This is a promising start.”

With the tips of his fingers, he turns your head this way and that, then glides them down your throat, to your collarbone and under your robe. You emit a tiny gasp. His touch is feather-light but it’s spreading fire all over your skin. You hear him murmur “so smooth”, as he loses himself in the feeling for a moment, same as you. But he soon regains control and leans back, as you instinctively sway in his direction. 

Your core is already pulsing, even though you’ve only just begun. You’ve never had a lover excite you so much by doing so little. You can barely sit still. He must see that too, because he finally takes pity on you.

“You may touch me now.”

Your hands fly up to his knees, and you make an effort to slide your palms up slowly. At last, your hand reaches the apex of his thighs. Your touch is slightly hesitant; you’re not familiar with this part of the Vorta anatomy. So far, it feels similar to any other humanoid, and you’re rather pleased with the size. You stroke the bulge experimentally and look up at his face. His eyes are half-lidded and his breath is heavier than normal. When he notices you looking, he licks his lips and raises one eyebrow mockingly.

“Surely you can do better than that?”

You can absolutely do better than that. Good enough to wipe that arrogant expression from his face. So instead of answering, you drag down the zipper of his pants and fish out his erect member. It’s not that different from a human’s, except for the subtle ridges on either side and the purple coloring of the head and the trailing veins. Its thickness makes your mouth water. Looking up at Weyoun from under your eyelashes and holding eye contact, you lower your head and give him a generous lick from the base to the head. He inhales sharply and sinks his fingers into the soft material of the sofa. That’s more like it. But you want to hear him moan. So you take the purple tip in your mouth and suck lightly, swirling your tongue around it occasionally. His hand finds its way into your hair, urging you to take him deeper and you immediately oblige. After all, wasn’t this whole thing about obeying orders? You wrap your fingers around his base to stimulate the length you can’t fit into your mouth, and start working on him in earnest.  
Your mind is completely empty save for the thought of pleasuring him. You look up at his face, and as your eye meet, Weyoun utters a small groan. The sight of you, utterly debauched, robe slid down one shoulder, worshipping him with such relish – it almost undoes him. Terrans and their intoxicating sensuality…

His fingers tighten in your hair and he drags your head off of him. Cheekily, you swirl your thumb around the tip, making him gasp and grab your wrist as well. You see in his eyes that he won’t let this insolence go unpunished.

“Tsk-tsk. And you were doing so well.”

Before you can process what’s happening, you’re dragged up onto the sofa, pushed face down, a hand holding you down firmly between your shoulder blades. Another hand is massaging your plump backside. For whatever reason, you decide to dig yourself deeper.

“I thought so. You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite a bit.”

A resounding smack on your bottom makes you yelp. More from surprise, admittedly, but it’s pretty painful, too. You imagine a red handprint glowing on your ass. But at this point, anything he does to you turns into pleasure, and you can barely stop yourself from asking for more – the Vorta is too full of himself already and you don’t want to give him any more reasons to gloat.

“My dear, you seem to misunderstand your position,” you gasp as you feel two fingers entering you, stretching and scissoring. “Your position – is – under - me.” Weyoun punctuates his words with the rough pumping of his fingers. If you were in your right mind, you’d be horrified to be so turned on by this display of dominance. But you’re not in your right mind, so instead you moan desperately and thrust back, fucking yourself on his fingers. Although you know he’s far from unaffected, his voice remains smooth and silken, and coupled with his deft movements it’s driving you absolutely insane. You wouldn’t be able to hold in your lusty sounds if you tried. Embarrassingly, you realize that you’re already close.

He must have noticed it, too, because he removes his fingers and laughs when you can’t help a miserable whine.

“Oh, did you think this was about your pleasure? Poor thing.” You swear you could have killed him if you didn’t want him so much at this moment. The hand that was holding you down suddenly twists into your hair and yanks you up, your back flush to his chest, his mouth next to your temple.

“This is about me teaching you to obey,” the Vorta hisses into your ear. Contradictory to his words, his free hand slips down from your waist to your hip and finally cups your sex. You can feel the heat of his stiff member at your back. Much more of this and you might spontaneously combust. 

“Please – fuck – please, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good… just please… please fuck me.”

And it’s as if these were the magic words he’s been waiting to hear – in the next moment you feel him entering you, stretching you, inch by glorious inch, you both moaning in unison.

“Ah, so you do know how to be compliant,” he whispers huskily, between wet kisses and nibbles to your neck. “Let me show you what your good behavior gets you.”

He draws back his hips, then forcefully pushes back inside you, bottoming out. You cry out as pleasure mixes with pain, sharpening both, and in the back of your mind you wonder if it’s possible to fry your nerve ending with such intense sensations. 

As soon as he manages to collect himself, Weyoun sets a punishing rhythm. His hand lets go of your hair in favor of grasping you tightly by the neck. His other hand is leaving bruises on your hip with his steely hold. But none of that matters as long as he keeps hitting that sweet spot inside you, stretching you open, filling you to the breaking point.

That’s exactly what it seems like he wants – to break you. To make it hurt. It’s not really about you anymore, not specifically. It feels like a deep-seated frustration, helplessness, uselessness, despair. Yours or his? It doesn’t matter anymore, because the coil in your abdomen twists tighter and tighter and it blinds you to all other thoughts and feelings, except how good he feels inside you, how deep and hard he’s fucking you, how you never want it to stop.

Your moans are turning into hoarse wails as you approach your peak, and you grab his forearms with such desperation that you think you might give him some bruises of his own. Not that he notices, deep in the throes of pleasure as well. You’re so close you barely need a few strokes of your fingers to reach completion – and then it’s intense, so intense you almost black out, so intense it’s almost unbearable. You cry out and arch into Weyoun, your muscles contracting and milking his own release out of him. For an infinite moment you are disconnected from all stimuli but your sense of touch. As your climax abates, you can hear him groaning into your neck and feel the last lazy thrusts before he stills, exhales, and then reluctantly pulls out of you.

You fall back to the couch, face down again, and try to catch your breath and collect your thoughts. The latter turns out to be an almost insurmountable task. Eventually you just give up and turn to face your companion. Weyoun doesn’t look any worse for wear, save for the slight lavender blush still dusting his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. When did he..? Ah, right. He didn’t actually undress. You, on the other hand, have lost your measly robe sometime during your tryst, and are now half-lying naked on the sofa, fresh bruises already flowering on your skin. Weyoun follows your gaze over broken capillaries with a pleased hum. Something dark and possessive flashes in his expression, but in the next moment he looks in your eyes and gives you what looks suspiciously like a genuine smile.

“Well, wasn’t that a fantastic example of combined effort? I can only hope that you stay just as enthusiastic about our partnership in the future.” He leans down to give you a peck on the shoulder, then stands up and saunters in the direction of the door. You look after him, still not sure how to feel about everything that transpired.

The doors open with a characteristic hiss. Before crossing the threshold, Weyoun turns around and catches your gaze once again.

“I’m looking forward to our continued cooperation, Y/N.”

Chuckling at his own joke, he turns away and leaves the room. As the doors slide closed, you collapse bonelessly on the sofa and close your eyes, wondering what the future may bring.


End file.
